that same sadness reading the paper. Cass remembered how, often, when she went upstairs to the Foleys' flat, Uncle Mike would be sitting in the wing chair, with the job ads open in front of him, nothing to apply for.
Cass rolled over in her white bed and crushed the pillow between her arms. Her heart sank again with the knowledge that her uncle was nothing but a victim. History's victim—Ireland, the Depression; whiskey's victim; his wife's. The weakness Cass sensed in him, and in all her men, was a weakness for victimhood. That was what she saw when they weren't looking, in the deep lines around their mouths, but she had just called it sadness. Sadness. A pathetic, weak word, it seemed to her now, which did not remotely describe the agonies or the furies that had taken her father away and destroyed her uncle.
Cass felt herself sinking fast. Now was she to think of her Uncle Mike as the victim, finally, of a brutal slayer who stuffed him in a blood sewer?
She squeezed her eyes shut against this train of thought.
I am not a victim, she told herself.
But she was. She was a victim of the ache behind her breastbone. "O
God," she whispered, "not my will but Thine." She repeated the familiar phrase once, then twice, reaching for the strength and peace that always came to her when she prayed.
But nothing.
The prayer had left a metallic taste in her mouth, and she felt afraid that in this hour of need her faith was deserting her. She pulled her right hand free of the pillow to touch her forehead, crossing herself, as if that gesture would release the wave of solace for which she longed.
But the sensation of her own fingers lightly on her head released instead a memory of that other hand on the very crown of her head, but now it was her uncle's hand, a large, rough workman's hand. He was touching with outstretched thumb and little finger both her ears. Her uncle had replaced her father as the man who touched her head like that, but now, instead of the canopy of heaven, the memory of that loving touch felt like the weight of an unwanted hat.
After washing and dressing, and greeting her mother, Cass went upstairs to sit in her aunt's kitchen. Her cousins had all finished with breakfast and were either gone now or elsewhere in the house. Cass was not going in to work. She sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Her aunt was kneading dough at the floured heavy board, her back to Cass. This was the first time the two of them had been alone.
Mrs. Foley was a large woman. The flesh above her elbows made her upper arms look like thighs. In her summer dress, those arms were exposed now, and the sight of them, quivering as she pounded the dough, filled Cass with embarrassment for her. Mrs. Foley's most prominent feature was not visible from behind, an unfortunate goiter the size of a golf ball that protruded from below the right side of her jawbone. The swollen thyroid was harmless, the doctors said, but the sight of it never failed to stir Cass's sympathy.
"Have you called Andrew, Aunt Flo?"
"Yes, last night. He's coming up today."
"By train?"
"Yes. Hannah too, he said."
They were silent for a moment, then Mrs. Foley said, "Monsignor Sweeney is postponing his retreat to stay here, thanks be to God. If he wasn't at the wake, those foolish Hibernians would expect to lead the rosary."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
The determination in her aunt's voice surprised Cass and alarmed her, for now she was going to have to tell her what she had done. The best thing to do was just to come out with it. "I ordered an autopsy last night, Aunt Flo."
"What?" Mrs. Foley's entire body registered her surprise, as she turned to face her niece.
Cass suddenly felt dizzy, and she pressed her fingers against the rim of her cup, as if that would keep her voice from shaking. "I ordered Uncle Mike's body moved from Riordan's to Gibson's, and I told them we would want an autopsy, to learn what happened."
"We know what happened."
"No, we
Cass rolled over in her white bed and crushed the pillow between her arms. Her heart sank again with the knowledge that her uncle was nothing but a victim. History's victim—Ireland, the Depression; whiskey's victim; his wife's. The weakness Cass sensed in him, and in all her men, was a weakness for victimhood. That was what she saw when they weren't looking, in the deep lines around their mouths, but she had just called it sadness. Sadness. A pathetic, weak word, it seemed to her now, which did not remotely describe the agonies or the furies that had taken her father away and destroyed her uncle.
Cass felt herself sinking fast. Now was she to think of her Uncle Mike as the victim, finally, of a brutal slayer who stuffed him in a blood sewer?
She squeezed her eyes shut against this train of thought.
I am not a victim, she told herself.
But she was. She was a victim of the ache behind her breastbone. "O
God," she whispered, "not my will but Thine." She repeated the familiar phrase once, then twice, reaching for the strength and peace that always came to her when she prayed.
But nothing.
The prayer had left a metallic taste in her mouth, and she felt afraid that in this hour of need her faith was deserting her. She pulled her right hand free of the pillow to touch her forehead, crossing herself, as if that gesture would release the wave of solace for which she longed.
But the sensation of her own fingers lightly on her head released instead a memory of that other hand on the very crown of her head, but now it was her uncle's hand, a large, rough workman's hand. He was touching with outstretched thumb and little finger both her ears. Her uncle had replaced her father as the man who touched her head like that, but now, instead of the canopy of heaven, the memory of that loving touch felt like the weight of an unwanted hat.
After washing and dressing, and greeting her mother, Cass went upstairs to sit in her aunt's kitchen. Her cousins had all finished with breakfast and were either gone now or elsewhere in the house. Cass was not going in to work. She sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. Her aunt was kneading dough at the floured heavy board, her back to Cass. This was the first time the two of them had been alone.
Mrs. Foley was a large woman. The flesh above her elbows made her upper arms look like thighs. In her summer dress, those arms were exposed now, and the sight of them, quivering as she pounded the dough, filled Cass with embarrassment for her. Mrs. Foley's most prominent feature was not visible from behind, an unfortunate goiter the size of a golf ball that protruded from below the right side of her jawbone. The swollen thyroid was harmless, the doctors said, but the sight of it never failed to stir Cass's sympathy.
"Have you called Andrew, Aunt Flo?"
"Yes, last night. He's coming up today."
"By train?"
"Yes. Hannah too, he said."
They were silent for a moment, then Mrs. Foley said, "Monsignor Sweeney is postponing his retreat to stay here, thanks be to God. If he wasn't at the wake, those foolish Hibernians would expect to lead the rosary."
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
The determination in her aunt's voice surprised Cass and alarmed her, for now she was going to have to tell her what she had done. The best thing to do was just to come out with it. "I ordered an autopsy last night, Aunt Flo."
"What?" Mrs. Foley's entire body registered her surprise, as she turned to face her niece.
Cass suddenly felt dizzy, and she pressed her fingers against the rim of her cup, as if that would keep her voice from shaking. "I ordered Uncle Mike's body moved from Riordan's to Gibson's, and I told them we would want an autopsy, to learn what happened."
"We know what happened."
"No, we
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